I HEAR DEAD COWBOYS WHISTLING
Late night moon, you telling me suhm-em?
Following me, making me follow you
Knowing Bob Dylan been talkin’ ‘bout those trench coats on the radio, watching you, watching me.
I feel the tingle, the pull, the soothing lunar draw, a drawl most southern, now that we’re in the country;
Dirt roads and pack rats,
Coyotes and weed;
Midnight chimes sounding like a dead man whistling a hundred years ago, songs of the Wild West, west of the Mississipp, somewhere far from the Mason-Dixon Line;
A trail of turquoise-blue gold, mined for Mayan kings and fancy jewelry boxes on Fifth Avenue .
Is it simply the Lemonade-Amnesia; or my Walker Kush enabling these rustic psychic memories?
There’s that dead cowboy again, pied piping from Enzo’s Arroyo.
“Come Papa come,” meet me at Bandit’s Pass. At last,
we’ll be reunited.